


Rocket Man

by conchepcion



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Viagra, Comedy, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Humour, Molly Hooper is sent to take care of him, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock accidentally eats Viagra, Sherlock is Not a Virgin, Sherlock is sick, penis humour, post-Moriarty's return, post-series 3, romantic confessional time, semi-angsty, sicklock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3393929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conchepcion/pseuds/conchepcion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is not sick, but he still takes paracetamol. Except it's not 'actually' paracetamol he takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rocket Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OccasionallyCreative](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/gifts).



> This couldn't be done without me having just three hours of sleep one day, or my beta AussieMaelstrom, bless her heart and thank you very much.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, hah.

His spoon travelled to the lowermost part of the cup, only halting to a stop as it met with the melting thick slab of honey, bits of ginger and lemon floating to the bottom as it dissolved. 'Mrs Hudson's special brew' that at first whiff had caused him to grimace, but the landlady's shrewd gaze forced him to imbibe. It smelled exactly like it tasted, too sweet with bits of softened ginger soaked in honey; a lethal combination. She gave him an almost saccharine smile when he'd raised the cup to his lips, clearly pleased at his efforts, soon scurrying off to hopefully leave him alone for the rest of the evening.

 

Instantly he put the devil's brew aside on a pile of books stacked by his chair, as he saw little point in finishing it off.

 

He wasn't sick.

 

Swallowing however, Sherlock felt an almost tentative-like thin blade carve through his oesophagus; a rather prominent and sharp cut, which no clearing of his throat could salvage without another fresh centre of pain beginning anew. And so with a roll of his eyes, he plucked the mug up again with a dour expression on his face, mouthing the words spoken to him  _'drink up, drink up'._

 

Swallow.

 

_Pain._

 

Swallow.

 

Repeat.

 

His throat was less aggravated, but the soreness couldn't be entirely doused by Mrs Hudson's attempt at a cure. Clearly the paracetamol hadn't kicked in either, somehow deliberately setting him up to suffer instead, which was obscenely dull. Two pills and nothing, just continuous cold sweat and building pressure around his temples. Groaning he emptied the contents of the cup, biting into a slice of ginger with exasperation, soon swallowing the piece, before leaning properly back into his chair.

 

He wasn't  _sick-_ sick.

 

Not the sick that anyone caught on a bus or tube - coughing - sneezing - and hacking their way behind newspapers, books, or whatever contraption was riddled with enough bacteria - dirty fingers sliding across touch-screens. Their bare hands pre-emptively touching buttons to slide open doors - again and again - riddled with filth. The flu was everywhere, even the papers were conscious of it, as always, reminding people to take care, to tread carefully. Some people still hadn't learnt to wash their hands, which was why he avoided taking the tube. Diseases weren't exactly the reason, but people - noises - unnecessary touching, carelessness he just didn't have time for.

 

Oh, and rush hour.

 

None of it was enjoyable, but he hadn't been on any germ-infested transport recently or suffered an unfortunate incident with an Oyster Card.

 

Then again, he wasn't  _really_  sick.

 

He hadn't  _thought_  himself sick either, like in 2005 when he'd been so nose-first (literally at some point) into the Nicholson and Harvey double-murder that his own brother had sent a Doctor to his then-premises (his temperature taken in the most vulgar way). Mycroft's attentiveness sometimes went too far, despite the constant references to his indifference.

 

This, however, wasn't 2005.

 

This was 2015.

 

And he wasn't sick.

 

Tapping his chin, Sherlock wondered whether or not his 'old habits' were the reason the medicine wasn't kicking in, as it should. This was something he should have shrugged off after all - one pill - and he'd be in form again, mind and body as one. Getting on and off drugs usually made him more resistant to common medicine, so that was possibly the reason. Dosages always had to be upped to make him feel anything in the end, which he knew made  _one_  person crinkle her nose at him in disappointment. The one person who was the reason he was in this dilemma to begin with, the one person who had been suffering from a mild cold, the one person who he had suddenly - - - one more pill wouldn't kill him.

 

His palms perspired when he got to his feet, blood rushing to his head, and he felt weak, very weak, besides another familiar feeling that made his brows knit as he navigated his way to the kitchen, opening the cupboards with a small groan.

 

Grabbing for the box of pills he readied to fling another one into his mouth without any thought, except on the mere vestige of a throb in his head. But he stopped and stared at the box, squinting at the label, irritated that he was seeing double, until the words stopped blurring all together.  _"_ Ah _."_

 

He hadn't taken Paracetamol.

 

He pushed the box onto the shelf with force before slamming the cupboard door again, pursing his lips as he recognized the sensation in the direction of his groin, prominent and throbbing. " _Viagra."_

* * *

 

Molly was sat cross-legged underneath what seemed like endless layers of woolly blankets, her hands clasping a large pink cuppa filled to the brim with tea. The telly was on, glamorous adverts and whatnot flickering before her, but none of it held her attention. As she was trying very hard not to fixate on her lips, and she was utterly failing - biting, then not biting them. Who in their right mind fixated on their lips? She wasn't fixating, anyway. Why should she be fixating? Taking a deep drink of her cup didn't help either, forcing her to lick said lips, instead of just pretending like nothing was happening. They were just a tactile sensory organ, and what if the tongue was made up of several muscles... "Oh God," she groaned over the reminder, settling aside the mug on the coffee table, tea splattering on the glass as a result, before she began flinging off the various blankets, leaving them behind in a great big pile on her settee.

 

Her cold was almost gone after all; she didn't need to be too considerate right now. Pacing about in her flat seemed like the better option, as her frustration needed to be let out in some way or the other (except actual shouting). Maybe she'd do the sane thing, perhaps - address the problem?

 

She couldn't pretend like she wasn't upset!

 

She was!

 

She absolutely and utterly could not believe the nerve of that man! He'd waltzed in like any other day - all dark curls and dark coat - hardly an unfamiliar scenario - asked her about her current project - they'd chatted -  _normally_  - without him being overtly rude or her trying to make him jealous - it was just friendly! They managed friendly these days. No slapping - no drug use - no arguments. They had become good at being friendly without either of them shouting at each other any more, or her shrinking herself so he could take space, or him taking space to begin with. They were good, comfortable even, or friends at least, like any other person would say.

 

But then he'd turned weird, very weird.

 

It's not like she hadn't made up about twenty different excuses as to  _why_  he was being weird, but the excuses couldn't really cover over the fact that he had been staring. He'd turned quiet; the sort of pause-before-asking-something-quiet, except the following sentence never came. It wasn't even his normal too close proximity stare either, so, she couldn't pass it off like that. Her brain had gone the only place it could go with such a damnable suggestive look in his eyes ('suggestive of what?' her mind had repeated at the time, utterly confused), despite the internal struggle against such a train of thought.

 

"What's wrong?" she'd asked breaking the silence, except instead of him racing off with his answer, he'd stayed quiet. More or less forcing her to look up from her microscope, fingers at the dials, as she gaped up at him for a minute before smacking her gob shut. Shifting about on her stool and averting her eyes seemed like a better idea, but she couldn't pretend he wasn't standing more or less on top of her either.

 

Sherlock just furrowed his brows instead of answering, lips pursed in thought, which worsened the quality of her thoughts. He followed this expression with looking  _lost_  all of a sudden, the sort of kicked puppy gaze she hated to love. Either he needed her for something quite huge, which meant a massive sacrifice on her part, or he'd accidentally killed Toby her cat.

 

"Sherlock?" she said wondering if he'd gone off to his mind palace without informing her. It could happen, it had happened before, but usually he'd be in his own corner of the room. But his name clearly snapped him to attention, recognition dawning in those impossible blue hues of his. Speaking didn't seem to be a part of the menu at the moment, his lips parting as if wanting to let out words, so she tried to lighten the mood by raising a brow in mild amusement.

 

It was almost like someone had hit  _pause_.

 

The second she'd thought that, everything fast-forwarded again - his eyes gazing on her lips - making her almost feel self conscious - before he suddenly leaned down. Even feeling his breath against her cheek, or his curls brush against her forehead, hadn't prepared her for his mouth to tentatively try out hers with the softest of pecks. She'd frozen too, eyes wide in shock as he drew back. Sherlock just blinked with a dazed look on his face, licking his lips as if in mid-thought, while she was still struggling to recover.

 

And then yet again he kissed her, with more certainty this time, firmer, his tongue seeking hers. Her own hands she didn't know where to put (not that she really could put them anywhere), as they were rather awkwardly on the microscope, while pressed up against his stooping figure.

 

Uncomfortable, yet comfortable; exactly like she thought it would be.

 

Thoughts fluttered through her head in waves, rapidly smothered by the taste of his mouth that opened to hers, until all of a sudden his lips were - - gone - - and she was left with a familiar feeling at the pit of her stomach.

 

The lab door opened and slammed shut, his quick strides heard in the distance, as she tried to lessen her flaming cheeks. Her lips had throbbed in the knowledge that his teeth had grazed her lower lips. Hardly surprising that it took her an hour to recover, besides two coffees and one broken sample (the latter a harsh reminder that she was at work and didn't have time to be a giggling school girl). She could, however, wonder what it all meant. Maybe there was a case? Or maybe since he'd noticed her cold - maybe he wanted to get sick too? He hadn't exactly said anything about it. Usually when there was something like that, he'd asked. The last time she had a bit of a cough, he'd asked her to donate some samples of her saliva for the occasion, which had caused her to look at him. He'd understood rather quickly that wasn't the thing to say, but he tried recovering by adding  _please_  to his demand (before finishing it off with a 'hope you get well').

 

No, none of it added up.

 

It certainly didn't add up when he then didn't show up for a good two weeks at St Bart's, having Greg or even John pop up to ask her to double-check some blood work (or other necessary work for him). "Are you two on a case?" she'd asked John.

 

"Yep," said John with a shrug. "He's a bit busy though."

 

"Hmm, he usually texts."

 

"He does?"

 

She just smiled instead of answering, as explaining that she had a sort of friendship with Sherlock felt a bit wrong. John seemed to be labouring under the impression that Sherlock avoided people at all cost, and held her at a professional distance. The man did know that she'd helped during Sherlock's fake-death, but he didn't really understand what that meant. Neither did she feel like clarifying when he'd prodded her for information, except the basics. For telling more than needed would reveal those occasions Sherlock would pop round at hers, and rant his frustrations out about John, Mary, babies and people in general.

 

Somehow that felt a bit hers - a bit  _theirs_  really. At least it did when she figured out that Sherlock never really shared that he visited quite often, to anyone, though his brother knew.

 

Mycroft always knew, or else he wouldn't have showed up in her flat years ago to request her to spy on his little brother.  _"Who do you think arranged for you to find this flat, Molly? It fit all of your requirements-,"_

 

"  _\- - I did?" she had said bewildered, but he'd just smirked._ She'd still sent him packing that day, which made Mycroft's smirk ten times wider than necessary. After that she'd occasionally get a text from the man asking about his brother's well-being, though the texts came more frequently post-Moriarty's return, which she supposed had to do with Sherlock almost living in her flat, taking up her large sofa (though refusing to do so during her engagement for some peculiar reason).

 

_Ping!_

 

When her mobile phone went off, she was half-expecting some text from Meena to entice her to do something, or Olivia as well, but it was the eldest Holmes himself -

 

[Received 19:45]

 

 _Sherlock is sick. I need you to check up on him._  -  _ **MH**_

 

She rolled her eyes, already on the verge of typing that she wasn't interested in 'coddling a grown man', especially a grown man who was deliberately avoiding her.

 

[Received 19:45]

 

_We both know that he isn't really sick. -_ _**MH** _

 

Molly almost sent an obscene smiley in return, but she ended up slumping down onto her sofa again contemplating whether or not she was willing to make the journey. There was no upside in forcing a grown man to speak with her, and despite his older brother's tactics she'd need more than that to make her go.

 

[Received 19:46]

 

 _You are his goldfish._  -  _ **MH**_

 

She really did not know what that meant.

 

* * *

 

Mrs Hudson was on her way out when Molly got to Baker Street. The landlady spared a few minutes to chat about the  _delicious_ Italian man she was meeting or having for dinner (Molly tried not to pay too much attention on that part of the conversation). With a cheeky wink the woman was off, though not before she'd warned her of Sherlock's moodiness, but Molly just smiled at that all-too familiar sounding business, before walking upstairs. It was eerily quiet when she entered the upstairs flat; the television was on low and being the only source of light in the room, gave it a rather bluish tint. She switched it off and turned on the light in the ceiling, comforted that the flat looked less uncanny, but the continued silence still didn't help.

 

"Sherlock?" she said breaking it, but no answer came.

 

Molly kept her coat on, mostly because she hadn't exactly changed from her comfort-clothes, wandering about in slacks and a frumpy jumper, but she didn't intend to stay long, except say 'hello' to make sure he was in fact alright.

 

When his brother hadn't answered her what goldfish was supposed to mean, she felt she had to go all of a sudden, despite having sent a cross text so the eldest Holmes would handle it himself, but in the end, her curiosity and some parts empathy won out.

 

"Sherlock..." she repeated walking into the dark kitchen, switching on the light there as well, but by the time she was stood by his bedroom door, she heard it lock from the inside _._

 

_Okay._

 

Molly stopped in her stride, blinking at the door.

 

"Are you hiding in your room?" she said rather baffled, proceeding to giggle, as she heard something getting knocked over. This was ridiculous. "Sherlock?"

 

"...Yes," said a grainy voice from beyond the door.

 

"You're - you're  _sick_?"

 

"Why wouldn't I be sick?" he said sounding offended and ill.

 

She was doubly confused now, as his brother had claimed he wasn't - she had been tricked, hadn't she? Roped into playing nurse when it was apparent she was the last person Sherlock wanted to see - quite literally - or else his door would be bloody open.  _All of it was his fault after all!_ She hadn't instigated the kissing, which probably led to him being sick (though she did feel rather gleeful about the latter). Sighing she tried not to think too much about it, and wondered if she could just make him a kettle before swanning off back to her flat. Him hiding away in his bedroom didn't exactly encourage any sympathy for his plight, if he really had one. She didn't have time for this kind of immature behaviour.  _No, she didn't_.

 

Molly braced herself slightly. "Do you need anything?" she said hoping for a negative, hoping he'd send her away so she could stay home and curse him forever (even if there was a tiny part, just a smidgen that hoped - - -).

 

"No."

 

 _There_. Her shoulders slumped slightly, but it's not like she didn't know the outcome. It was stupid of her to come. She would go. Neither would speak of whatever happened between them. Not like she expected them to, and with that she'd be okay in the end. She'd forget it. He'd delete it, just like she knew he'd do, and they'd move on again, being friendly...

 

Molly begun to walk back again, shutting off the light in the kitchen - and just when she was about to pass through the doorway to the sitting room she heard - "I'm sorry."

 

"What?" she said whirling around, leaning her hand on the doorway almost for support, as she stared at the door on the end of the hall.

 

No answer came of course.

 

Rolling her eyes, she walked back again, crossing her arms in irritation that she wants to know what he means by that, but no one would keep that against her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

 

Sherlock sighed on the other side. " - For - the - incident," he said sheepishly, while she frowned at a door. She was both glad and frustrated that she couldn't see his face. They could hardly have such a serious talk, like this, could they?

 

"You mean the kiss?" she bit out, unafraid of being blunt considering the climate, it's not like he could see her blush.

 

All of a sudden it was like she could hear the machinery in his head grinding away, and she almost laughed, but she stifled any attempts by invoking the apparent distraught expression his face bore (even if that almost prompted a laugh).

 

" - Yes, umm, the kiss," he said with that hoarse hiss of his.

 

She grinned at the very posh way he seemed to be addressing it all, but her smile dropped. This was an apology.  _Oh God._ Molly needed to remember that, and all of a sudden she wished there more than just a door between them, blinking as she gathered more courage to say what he probably couldn't. "It's alright, really it is, and we can pretend like this-," she began, something warm gliding down her cheeks.

 

_Never happened._

 

"I don't - - want to pretend-," he said before she'd managed to finish, and she took a step back when the door was unlocked, a set of familiar messy curls popping out. His eyes were red from cold, but there was a small smile playing on his lips, tentative and careful. Sherlock looked an utter mess, but a handsome one nonetheless.

 

" _Oh."_  Fidgeting before him, she briefly looked down on the wooden floors, lifting her head up. "You don't?"

 

It didn't need saying. The look on his face told her enough, as it was the soft expression she'd once seen before, one she'd denied herself to read into, but within those eyes of his, she found her answer. She flushed, eyes darting down, before slyly lifting up again to stare at him in wonder.

 

"No," he said slowly. " - - But I would like for you to leave."

 

She did not expect that - at all - gaping wordlessly at the man who was looking uncomfortable before her. Narrowing her eyes at him, she took in the paleness of his skin. "What's going on?"

 

"Nothing's going on," he said too quickly. "I'm - _sick_ -," he began coughing into his hand demonstratively. "Can't you see? It's hardly a difficult deduction."

 

She did see.

 

His pupils were dilated and droplets of sweat were sliding down the side of his face. Signs that clearly - signs that he - - - she couldn't believe him.

 

Pushing past him effortlessly she got into his bedroom, the man himself stumbling back in shock, while she tried not to shout. She was going to go forward calmly - then call his brother, then John, and then everyone for a serious discussion about this.

 

Molly almost couldn't look at him, unwilling to turn around until her harsh breathing had subsided a little. Turning around to face him, she steeled herself for whatever excuse he'd throw at her, or whatever lie he'd try to coerce her with.

 

"It's not drugs!" he said in one breath, as he apparently had finally understood why she was inside his bedroom.

 

"Right, so what is it then?" she snapped. "A five percent solution?"

 

"Viagra."

 

"What?" she said, her eyebrows in her hair as she considered ringing Mycroft immediately. Clearly he thought _that_  lie would work! Was he so off his head? But she faltered, blinking in bemusement when she really saw what he wore. His robe, of course, but underneath it - nothing - which really underlined what was protruding below the belt, more or less.

 

" _Oh my God_ ," she said gaping.

 

No wonder he'd wanted her to leave! Then again, she'd never really been sent away before because someone had an erection. Molly hadn't ever found that qualified as ill, quite the opposite. Despite her best attempts, her eyes did look at a 'southerly sphere', but soon she focused on his face, his rather thunderous expression - " _Molly_ ," he bit out, teeth on edge, eyes dark.

 

"Umm, what's - what's going on then?" she said with an innocent expression, as if she  _hadn't_ heard him state what it was, but she'd like it repeated again, thank you very much.

 

He just seemed to ignore the current problem that didn't waver, twitch or diminish in her presence, quite impressive really, or well, from what she could see from underneath his dark blue robes.

 

"You're not helping," he said devoid of humour.

 

Yeah, she really needed to stop focusing on his erect penis. It was hard the way it sort of drew in the eye though, she thought, trying not to giggle.

 

Blushing, she looked at his face again.

 

"Sorry, umm, what's going on?" she tried again, relishing the moment a bit too much.

 

She knew how uncomfortable this sort of thing made him, and it wasn't like she wanted to torture him, either, but he had snogged her mercilessly to then flee.

 

Looking still peeved he began with his tale. "I had an unfortunate incident," he said, eyes shifting all over the place.

 

"An erection is an unfortunate incident?" she quipped unable to help herself, letting a giggle slip.

 

His choice of words were very poor, after all, though they didn't lessen the smile on her face while she looked at the grown man looking strikingly uncomfortable in his current position.

 

"Viagra," he said once more, voice sounding even crotchetier than before, while she still tried to wrap her head around him of all people taking such a drug.

 

"Why?"

 

"By accident some hours ago," he said clearing his throat.

 

"Oh God... We need to take you to the hospital-," she said blanching, while he blinked. "This is dangerous, Sherlock. If you've had an erection for hours -," She'd heard enough horror stories in her time and seen some.

 

The human body was as amazing as it was frightening.

 

"It's fine-," he quickly said. "This - - just happened."

 

"Oh," she said, her eyes widening. " _Ohhhh_."

 

She knows how it works. Viagra isn't an instantaneous thing, after all, but when the welcomed result finally shows up, it's there and it's rather hard. Words she shouldn't be using in front of the man at this very moment - - " - I mean," she said clearing her throat awkwardly, the air between both of them rather stifling all of a sudden. He's not even covering himself up with a pillow; it's just, bulging outward, reminding her of Meena's madcap theory of " _The cleverer the man - the bigger his-,"_

 

"I'd rather you not see me like this," he said with his hands on his hips, eyes on the floor.

 

Molly pursed her lips, wondering briefly if she should go for his sake. " - I don't mind," she said not at all saying she'd leave, but she's not about to take it back either, glad to see him looking at her again. "It's fine, I mean. I'm not - offended."

 

"No, I suppose we can be adult about this."

 

"...Yes," she said with a small nod. "We'll fix this."

 

"Good. It's only an erection...I'll call Mycroft."

 

" _What?"_ the pitch of her voice had turned higher, much higher than she would have liked, soon clamping her mouth shut, like he'd notice her shock less that way. Clearly he hadn't really understood what she'd meant.

 

"Just hearing his voice tends to eradicate any problem, if I've ever had one," he said with a brisk casualness, as he picked up his camera phone, slipping it firmly into his hand. "I discovered it when he texted me one morning - rather helpful - though I don't think  _he'd_ like to know-," abruptly his phone dropped onto the floor with a bang, it sounded like the screen shattered, but Sherlock wasn't staring at his phone.

 

He was staring at her.

 

Once more the cogs seemed to be working in his head, eyes fluttering open and shut repeatedly, just like he said he'd been when John had asked him to be his best man.

 

"Are you-," she began, letting out a breath, as he just inactively stared at her for what seemed an age. She sat down in the available chair in the room, waiting. " - - Okay..." Usually when he got like this, they were in her flat or in the lab, and she could busy herself about, but there wasn't exactly anything she could do in his flat - - - except - getting to her feet, she stood before him, aware that his big-eyed stare and open mouth slacked all of sudden. He was blinking at her, staring properly, gently she raised herself on the tips of her toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. " - Better?" she said when she drew back, her hand on his unshaven cheek, bemused to find days worth of scratchy stubs underneath her palm.

 

He nodded, and she pulled back properly, fisting her hands when she stepped back to look up at him. "So - - what do you want me to do? - I can go, if that's what you want?"

 

"So you really meant it?" he breathed out, brows furrowed, and confusion apparent on his face. " _We'll_  fix it."

 

"Or isn't it a problem?" she said with a smile.

 

Sherlock blinked. "Umm, it's not a big-," she narrowed her eyes - "Okay, it's rather-," she grinned as he continued - " - he cleared his throat, coughing slightly. " - I've still got a cold."

 

"Then we won't," she said with a shrug, catching on that he was nervous. "It's fine, Sherlock. Whatever you want, but one question-," her brown eyes were fixed on his face, large grin in place - "Why do you have Viagra in the first place?"

 

He raised his brows slightly. "Do you really want to know?" he whispered, looming over her all of a sudden.

 

"...Yes."

 

Smirking he leaned forward, the side of his face brushing hers, "Mrs Hudson's dinner won't be so successful tonight, I think."

 

Molly clapped a hand in front of her mouth. "Oh my God,  _really_?"

 

"No, but the thought certainly put a damper on things," he said standing upright again, his eyes darting down briefly while she snorted.

 

* * *

 

She was still there; comfortable looking in her soft apparel that was supposed to - ' _turn him off' -_ was the phrase she'd used when she shrugged off her coat, hanging it and spreading her arms to show off the apparent disgrace of an outfit. He had just wanted to test the fabric, to drag his fingertips on the white knitted jumper covering some thin-slip-of-a-pyjama top with rose patterns, or the grey thin cotton bottom trousers that looked like the wind could slip through the very cloth without protest. Sherlock had avoided testing out the material, though he'd stared more than he should, especially when her flushed cheeks finally made her pull off the jumper, her nipples instantly pebbling underneath the top, their buds poking out of the material like some warning-signal.

 

"Sherlock - you're staring," she said from the sofa, but it's not a reprimand, just an observation.

 

They're in the sitting room, and he's not really sure  _why_ she is still there, but he can't find a reason to mind her presence.

 

"Yes," he said.

 

"How's it going?" she said looking up from her book, while he settles the violin aside, giving up the whole concept of trying to play, especially when the discomfort is as high as it is. He fluctuates from mildly stiff, to practically engorged and on the verge of biting into furniture.

 

"- - Why haven't you asked?"

 

"About what?"

 

"About my _feelings?"_

 

She closed the book in her hands, letting her hand drift over the cover in a smooth rather satisfying motion. "... Because I thought you'd want to tell me yourself. I don't see the point of asking you, if you'd rather not tell."

 

"I don't mind you asking."

 

"Okay?" she said sniffing slightly. "...How did you figure it out?"

 

He grinned pressing his palms together, leaning them against his mouth before he drew for breath - "I got sick."

 

"Oh?"

 

"I don't get sick - I know the warning signals my body sets off when any unknown entity starts to break through the barriers,  _but_  for once, it wasn't a virus - it was you." His blue eyes were just fixed above her right shoulder, though they soon darted to her face, staying there. "I kept trying to fight it off, denying myself the idea - and this is something I have been struggling with more than just these past couple of days, much further, much longer. It's just - now - I allowed it to go too far-,"

 

"So I make you -  _sick_?" she said after a minute, trying to keep the grin off her face.

 

"No - no -," he began, until he realized that she was just toying with him, a playful smile on her lips, the relaxed expression that made him enjoy being in her company more than he should, and made him  _throb._ " - You'd think talking about  _feelings_ would make it go away-," he groaned, irked by the sensation between his legs.

 

"...Did you just bring it up so you'd get rid of your erection?" she said gaping at him from the other side of the room.

 

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, clearing his throat soundly, as his hands began plucking at the arms of the chair.

 

"...No?"

 

"Sherlock!"

 

"It was worth a try," he said with a lazy grin, letting out an exasperated sigh. "Though, it hardly worked. Talking about my feelings for you only made me harder, if humanly possible!"

 

She giggled.

 

"How is this funny? - We could have sex, but what if you're unimpressed by the state of things - with your  _lots of sex_ -," he was walking into an argument, her face told him enough - but he wanted to.

 

"Sorry -  _seven times_  in Baker Street?"

 

"That wasn't true!" he scoffed, while she looked at him with significantly raised eyebrows, as if he was supposed to understand what that meant - until it dawned on him - "You were trying to make me  _jealous?"_

 

" - - I was trying to make you stop sleeping in my bed, actually, though fat lot of good that did me or Tom."

 

He grimaced all of a sudden. "- Go on, apparently talking about you and your ex-fiancé meat-dagger is helping!" he scrambled to his feet, marching within the sitting room, throwing mock-glares into her direction.

 

"- How's-," and he's glad to know she's caught on his agenda.

 

"It's back," he sighed, hands pressed against his temple, fingertips making circles. "Maybe you should just let me take care of it -  _or -_ are you still here because you want to have sex? I know it's been months for you, hasn't it? ...You've lost weight after all."

 

Molly blinked.

 

"Okay... actually angry with you now."

 

"Let's be honest, you do want to have sex with me."

 

She gaped. "No, I don't!"

 

He gave her a look. "So if I offered, right now - us - here - you'd turn me down?" he said with a raised eyebrow. "Come on, Molly. We both know that you'd have sex with me."

 

"You're a moron," she said getting to her feet, grabbing for her jumper, which was inside out, but she began to jerkily sort out, her anger visible in her movements.

 

She soon walked off to the bedroom to fetch her coat, Sherlock hot at her heels. " - Angry sex isn't your thing, then?  _Noted_."

 

She looked at him in confusion, stopping in the middle of his bedroom. "What?"

 

"I was just curious."

 

"So you staged an argument?"

 

"Hardly an argument, a tiff at the most, not even a scuffle really."

 

"If one of the people involved believes it's an argument, it's an argument. Anyway, you don't begin with angry sex..." she said sounding knowledgeable on the subject.

 

"Fine, then."

 

"... So you were jealous?" she said with her coat in her hands, not putting it on so he's not worried she'll leave, but still hovering on the edge of leaving.

 

"Weren't  _you_?"

 

"Yes, but just-,"

 

"At the wedding," he said with a small smile. "I noticed - - then again - - so was I..."

 

"You were? You didn't speak with me."

 

"And you didn't follow me, hardly an uneventful night in retrospect."

 

" - Was I supposed to have?"

 

"It would have helped..." and he bit his tongue, knowing that the other words wanting to be let out - ' _everything else might not have happened'_ \- him being shot - Mary and John - the drugs - but he knows what she'll do, she'll leave, she'll get truly angry, because he knows the truth, he knows that he shouldn't have left to begin with, frightened to see people move on without him, all of them leaving him behind.

 

His decision, so, the outcome was his fault. Truth be told, everything was his fault, even the fact that it had taken him this long to do something.

 

"I can't always run after you, you know," she said in a small voice, brown eyes on his face, and he can almost see her carrying that weight.

 

He doesn't let her.

 

"Yes, I know... It's time I did some chasing," he said with a smirk, glad to see her eyes brighten before him, yet hesitance is still clouding her face. "So -  _sex_?" he said throwing in a wink for good measure, happy to see her laugh.

 

"Wha - what?" she said eyes wide as her laugh dissipates and he reasons it's not a bad idea -  _how bad is Viagra for brain work, he wonders?_ "Just like that?"

 

"Isn't that what people do? Or do we need to dance around that for a couple of years as well? By that time, my libido might need these pills, Molly. No time to waste!"

 

" - -  _Pills_? Wait - did you take more than one-,"

 

"No, no - of course not-," he lied, eyebrows knitted together and irritation large, even more so when all his cock did was twitch in approval over the blush that decorated her cheeks, or the fact that the top buttons of her pyjamas top had somehow decided to slide apart, allowing a section of pale flesh to be seen, not that it was  _newsworthy_  or remotely sexual to see 'skin', but it was her skin, Molly's skin in his bedroom.

 

The change of scenery was certainly helpful.

 

" - - Alright," she said and now he's uncertain whether or not she's saying  _alright_  to him having only eaten one pill, or she's saying alright to the sex. He should be able to distinguish her expression, or so he thinks, eyes looking over her as if she'll give a tell tale sign of want. The human body is multifaceted - in this case her quick pulse could mean anger - her flush could also mean anger or - " - - We can have sex."

 

It's all sighed out, pink lips pressed together in a sort of project-mode, like they're in the lab, and they're about to embark in a two hour trek over several old files about types of fungi in some still-water ponds. This isn't the excited, aroused or elated expression he's presumed for years she'll have, and so, he knows this is - "No sex then," he hummed with a nod, sullenly agreeing with her, despite his body being a brute, almost wanting to smack his genitals for paying attention to the shifts and movements of her body, like it's attuned to hers.

 

" - - Well it's not  _you_ , is it, if you think about it?" she said after a while, thankfully not 'umming' or 'erring' her way through the sentence, but all in lucid thought, like a matron or a nun. "Your body is wired for sex, but your brain isn't really 'wired' for it-," this tiny add-on-speech, however, makes him blink.

 

"It isn't?" he drawled, tilting his head to the side, as she shifted a bit on her feet, legs apart, clearly convinced she's right.

 

"You barely  _like_  people," she said.

 

" - I like you."

 

Molly sighed. "I know, you do, but I don't feel it's right to-,"

 

"Have sex when I've eaten Viagra? - - Got it."

 

"No, it's because, you'd - you'd not be like  _this_." Her helpful hand gesture towards the direction of his erect penis does give him the general gist of it.

 

"Oh, you think I have no sexual impulses?" he said thoughtfully.

 

"...Yes?" she said with a narrowed and confused expression.

 

He realized that there clearly was no point  _talking_ about it, as it only made them stagnantly struggle through another lengthy diatribe.

 

Taking one long step forward, he strode into her space, glad to hear her breath hitch, as he'd just stood closer, not very unusual, eyes hovering over her flushed face.

 

" _Wrong_  - -," he breathed. "And you're usually so clever, if I had stayed in the lab that day - we would have exchanged more than just air and saliva, Molly - - or do you doubt that? In that case -  _wrong_ ," he spoke the last word across her lips, amused to feel her lean yet not inch enough forward, despite his close proximity, his hands close to touching her skin, fingers itching to do so.

 

But he grabs her one wrist for leverage instead, feeling the drumming pats of her pulse below the thin layers of skin, and he smirks down at her, her lips parting while she gazes up at him.

 

"Now - - do you want to be - - ," Seduction has never been a thing he's been given the chance to complete, to finish the challenge of bringing her to his bed, but he enjoys it, the weight of it, the look on her face as the possibilities are weighed in her head, her eyes fixed on his face, his mouth, his body. " - - Right - or - wrong?"

 

It's not his intention to make it sound like a growl, his voice guttural, and almost foreign to his own ears. But he sees her interpret the words in her head, his other free hand bringing up her chin, bowing his head to brush his lips gently against hers.

 

Her silence just makes them dangle, listless and waiting for some rock to drop, to disturb, and it's just when he's about to kiss her properly, to tempt her - "Just fuck me."

 

 _Seduction is rather overrated,_  he thinks when their lips and teeth clash together, heads and limbs trying to arrange themselves properly, his cock painfully erect. His hands try out her skin, sliding down her back, pressing her firmer against him, enjoying the smile on her face as he tastes her lips.

 

It's hardly surprising when it's her who's pushing him on the bed. He doesn't care, watching with some amusement while resting on his elbows, as she slips out of her shoes, a look of mild annoyance on her face.

 

Shoes and trousers and pink knickers are soon on the floor.

 

 _Her_  impatience is rather unexpected.

 

Instead of wasting more time she gets onto the bed, positioning herself so her centre is just hovering over a thin layer of clothing, the drawstring of his robe in her hand.

 

And she pulls it apart - "You're-," he hissed, eyes rolling in awe, as she sunk down onto his hardened cock that convulsed at the contact.

 

"Yes-," she moaned, her warmth and wetness encasing him, as she tried to find purchase in the bed, and he wanted nothing more than to rid her of her blouse.

 

His hands reached - but she clenched around him, making him gasp in surprise, her eyes gleaming as she continued grinding him untouched. Sinking down on him, until she drew herself almost completely off then slamming down again, her breaths drawn and heavy.

 

"Mol-," he began with gritted teeth, failing when she tightened around his cock again, her lower muscles working to her benefit, to his utter - utter -  _ruin._

 

"No," she said leaning down to meet his mouth, face and hair brushing down against his, her pyjama blouse sliding against his chest, teasing him with the mere rubbing of her pebbled nipples.

 

But soon he locked his arms around her back, holding her in place, pumping into her with his cock, which made her groan onto his lips, less put-together than before.

 

It's almost easy to flip them over, drawing her legs around his waist, feeling them cross behind his back, as he pushes into her slick hot space. She's delicious, tightening around him again, almost making him loose his grip; especially with the way she bites her lip, staring up at him amused.

 

Her arms soon drag him down, clawing at his back, and his tongue twists with hers in a messy attempt at a kiss, too warm, too distracted, so he distances himself, still pushing into her, hands on her torso, tugging until the buttons pop.

 

And she gapes at him, until he has her breasts underneath his palms, fingers pinching the aching pink nipples, which he lathers kisses on, still thrusting into her.

 

"Can we-," she gasps and he distractedly draws back, his cock throbbing at the cold air, pre-cum sliding over the slick head.

 

She's on her knees on the bed, eyeing him over her shoulder, spreading her legs slightly, but he doesn't need much to return back to the delicious feeling of her, on his knees behind her, gripping the headboard of the bed as he pounds into her.

 

He can feel the small tremors of her body, her panting closing together, his own body trembling underneath it all. Sherlock's glad to find her juices flowing from her cunt, letting his finger tips become slick with them, before he begins to work at the bud that makes her moan at an even higher pitch.

 

Her legs are wobbling now, arms barely keeping herself upright, collapsing together, while he slams into her, almost out - then in again, until he can only hear complete pleasure in her voice, feeling it vibrate from her body to his, and he spends himself inside of her, letting her suck to his last drop.

 

"Oh - - God-," she groaned into his pillow, almost wiping at her mouth. He can see a speck of saliva at the corner of her lips, sheen of sweat covering her body, and if he had the strength to grin he would, but he just drops onto his back on the bed, his chest heaving for air.

 

She lays besides him properly, panting and red-faced, giggling slightly, and he joins her in the laughter.

 

"Again?" he rasped when he found his voice.

 

"Just, umm, give me - a minute," she said.

 

"Tired?"

 

"Oh no -  _oh_ -" she said surprised when he begins to play with her flesh, feeling her turning wet rather quickly as he slides his fingers into her warmth.

 

"Good," he breathed, smirking against her lips, as she wrapped her hands around his neck - letting him kiss her.

 

* * *

 

She's sore, the kind of sore punctuated when he playfully smacked her bottom (not that he hadn't done that during as well) as she went to fetch coffee for them both (grumpily saying  _he_  should be the one instead, until he run his hands between her thighs, tip toeing his fingers near her sex like some confident arse), halting to a stop when she saw Mrs Hudson carrying a packet of familiar pills.

 

"Oh hello dear," said the woman not even taking in the fact that Molly was only wearing one of Sherlock's shirts, before she more or less sprinted out.

 

Molly considered telling Sherlock that Mrs Hudson was either the owner of the Viagra, or just stole the packet - but she decided to spare him the story for another day.

 

 

 

**THE END**


End file.
